


Quadrilateral

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, M/M, Past Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a) For the purposes of this story, I have nixed the canonical pregnancy at the end of series 3 and moved it to the middle of this story. </p><p>b) Strange fic; caveat lector.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Quadrilateral

**Author's Note:**

> a) For the purposes of this story, I have nixed the canonical pregnancy at the end of series 3 and moved it to the middle of this story. 
> 
> b) Strange fic; caveat lector.

The ability to put a positive spin on things may or may not be a good sign, John decides. Of course, when he makes this decision, he’s ignoring the fact that he doesn’t know if he can trust that Mary’s concern over seeing him holding a bag of frozen veg over his black eye is genuine.

Paranoia is a word that will come up weeks later with his new therapist, but for the moment, the word optimism is most fitting. John is, after all, at least sober for the ensuing conversation. And the black eye does serve as an effective ice-breaker. And his anger is all burned out, because even John Watson can’t remain irrationally angry when the truth has become so glaringly obvious.

“What happened to you?” Mary does seem surprised, which, given the words she and Sherlock had spoken about him a week prior, seems a bit suspect. The caretaker in her takes over, and she’s sitting beside him on the couch, pulling his hands and the frozen veg away from his face, examining the black eye.

“Pub fight,” John replies. Mary stops and stares at him, a mixture of irritation and bewilderment present on her countenance. “Why?” she asks, and there’s a drawn-out, ellipses-addled quality to the question.

“I thought it was preferable to pick a fight with a drunk stranger than with my best friend who’s having an affair with my wife.” John figures he’s kept any anger out of his voice, but then is surprised to discover that there’s no anger in him, just sadness.

Mary drops the packet of veg, and John decides that the look of shock on her face is real. He should have a sliver of satisfaction that she’s surprised that he found out, that he’s not as stupid as she and Sherlock think he is, but he just feels slightly sick to his stomach. He begins an explanation, as it’s interminable, waiting.

“I followed you, a little over a week ago, because I figured there was something going on. Not anything like I discovered, something a little more…innocuous, but then I saw you kissing Sherlock, and I…I heard what you said about me.” John pauses, watches the way Mary’s face changes, from surprise to guilt. “I’m assuming it has to do with…”

“Your six months of ignoring me, yes.” Mary doesn’t mince words, and John can appreciate that. There’s a strange relief in her confirmation. It’s a recent development, blaming himself for things and accepting it, but it’s oddly less of a burden.

“We didn’t plan it.”

Mary has the decency to refrain from saying that it just happened, or maybe just the intelligence. She also has the honesty to stop there; she doesn’t apologize, just looks down at her hands spread out on her lap. 

“Do you love him?” It’s only half of what he wants to ask. He wants to ask her if it was a game to them, but it seems cruel to accuse Mary and Sherlock of, well, cruelty. 

“Yes, we love each other.” She’s looked up again, unflinching. John stands and walks to the window, wondering if it would be better or worse if they didn’t, then decides it would be worse, though he somehow knows it on an intellectual rather than an emotional level.

“Why have you been going behind my back?” He turns once again to face her.

Mary’s countenance hardens. “You’re violent, for one. No, don’t you dare object…” her voice is like steel. “You know it.”

“You’re honestly afraid that I would hit you?”

“No, but I’ve seen what happens when Sherlock has hurt you.” She pauses, as if waiting for a response, but John remains silent, unable to argue with her.

“It’s also not that simple John. I can’t turn off how I feel about you just because I have feelings for someone else. Which is exactly why we’ve been lying to you; it’s not as if Sherlock and I set out to hurt you.”

“Seriously? Because what you said about me would suggest otherwise. What was it? Oh right, I’m a self-absorbed, obtuse idiot.”

“That would go back to you ignoring me for those six months.”

“You have continued to lie to me!”

“To protect you!”

“To protect yourself!”

John looks into Mary’s eyes and sees that neither of them have ever left their respective battlefields. 

**

London is a mercifully large city. John and Mary don’t invite the courts into their separation. John has successfully avoided Sherlock. He has not successfully avoided ignoring the feeling that it hurts almost as much as leaving Mary.

When he answers the listing for a flatmate, he has every intention of sorting his life out. Whether he and Mary get divorced or remain married, he has to once again adapt to a life sans Sherlock. But the DSM is remarkably and unsurprisingly silent concerning addiction to danger, so John has to stumble forward as best as he can.

At first, being Victor Trevor’s flatmate looks to be promising in John’s efforts to normalize his existence. Victor owns a used bookstore, and spends many hours restoring antique books. If he also seems to speak with an impressive number of men and women without selling a proportionate number of books, well, he is rather tall, dark, and handsome.

John does get an inkling that he may be entirely wrapped up in his job at a new clinic, and wondering if Mary is ever going to contact him again, wondering when it would be appropriate to contact her, going over various traumatic memories (being shot, the pool) and trying to deny that perhaps one of those two incidents would have been the perfect ending to his life after all, when Victor stumbles upstairs one evening with a nasty gash under his eye.

“What the hell?!” John is pushing him into a chair immediately, getting the first-aid kit, attending to the gash. “What happened to you?”

Victor’s eyeroll would be more impressive if he could finish it unblocked by a gaping cut. “You’re so obtuse Watson.”

John has spent some time in therapy learning healthy approaches to anger. He’s also so intrigued that he doesn’t flinch much at the insult. There’s a sense of things clicking together, and he wonders if this is a muted sense of what Sherlock goes through. Victor seems a bit of a nerd, with the books, but there’s also the way he carries himself, the way he addresses John, a certain efficiency, the customers at somewhat odd hours, the periodic disappearances that John assumed meant that he was out acquiring more books…

“You’re ex-military.”

“That’s slightly less obtuse, but that doesn’t explain the cut.”

“You’re a…detective. A private detective.”

“Remarkable. Fortunately you are a more competent doctor than you are an investigator.” Victor sighs and leans into his chair, his wound freshly dressed.

“You’re welcome,” John replies dryly. He busies himself with taking care of the supplies, and there’s a reasonably amicable silence until Victor manages to shock John once again. 

“What happened between you and Sherlock?”

John feels indignant, but there’s something in Victor’s voice at the mention of Sherlock’s name, something that reveals that Sherlock Holmes is not just someone Victor has seen in the papers or on the internet. He slowly turns to face Victor.

“What’s the history between you and Sherlock?” John asks.

“You shouldn’t answer a question with a question.”

“You shouldn’t ask deeply personal questions.”

Victor looks away and John gathers up the first aid kit and returns it to the shelf. There’s a long pause, and it’s tense enough that John is about to grab his coat and leave, even if it’s dark and five degrees outside.

“I just…” Victor sighs. “I just want to know if Sherlock is alright. I just want to know if it has anything to do with drugs.”

The last is uttered in a bit of a rush, and when John takes a proper look once again at Victor, there’s a careful mask, but it can’t quite conceal the concern.

“It wasn’t drugs. And as far as how he’s doing…I think he’s getting along alright. I haven’t spoken to him in two months though.”

“Okay.” Victor rises from the chair, surprisingly fluidly for someone whose head ought to be pounding. “Thanks Watson.”

**

John continues to fill his time with work, a bit of reading, therapy, and what Victor refers to as ‘brooding.’

“Watson, you’re broody again.”

“You are certainly one to talk.” Their conversation of two weeks ago has enabled John to decipher the difference between Victor’s ‘lost in book restoration’ demeanor and ‘broodily contemplating what must be Sherlock Holmes’ demeanor.

Victor seems to ignore John’s retort. “You don’t have enough to occupy your time. You should start working cases with me.”

It would not take a psychologist of any level of training to see Victor’s invitation as a large, bright, waving red flag. John ignores such a reality.

“Yeah, alright.”

**

“It was the drugs. That’s why I left.”

They’re on a stakeout. John’s a bit over a week into working with Victor and it’s their second case. So far things are less bizarre, a bit more run-of-the-mill private investigation work rather than murders. John chooses to be optimistic and see this as a sign of progress instead of his own denial.

“Is this why you asked me to work with you? To talk about your feelings?”

“No, that was because your head was going to explode otherwise and I don’t want to spend any more money on the cleaning service.”

“So…why the sharing of our personal histories then?”

“Neither of us has any friends.”

“Fair enough.”

The silence still manages to be companionable, but now John feels as if Victor has scratched a wound open, and ignoring blood never causes it to stop flowing steadily forth.

“He’s sleeping with my wife.”

If Victor were drinking something at the moment, John imagines that he would spit it out from surprise. As it is, Victor is looking through the windshield of his car, minus any liquids, but his expression has changed just enough that John can tell he’s surprised.

“Sherlock….Sherlock doesn’t…”

“Yes, I was also surprised.” John turns away from his own intensive observations of absolutely nothing to look over at Victor, and there’s something besides surprise on Victor’s face.

“You’re not just former military, you’re former MI6 or something, aren’t you? Oh my god, Sherlock has a type.”

Victor blinks, then looks at John incredulously. “Your wife…”

“That’s a terribly long story. One I don’t actually know, as I thought I was making the noble choice of not looking at a drive that would tell me everything that Mary had hidden from me, which I now wonder if it was such a noble choice and perhaps it would have been better to look at it and then swear my love regardless of whatever was on it, and regardless I should not be talking to you about it.”

If they lived in a movie script, this would be a moment in which the people they were staking out would do something incriminating and John and Victor would be allowed to table the incredibly awkward discussion for later. But John and Victor do not live in a movie script, and the silence becomes interminable. Finally Victor declares the night a wash and they return to the flat.

John is too wired to sleep and decides to put the kettle on. Scotch would be preferable, but John is not a complete idiot. Victor prepares the cups and tea bags, and they’ve both settled in the living room and have had time to allow the tea to cool and begin sipping before John speaks again.

“It’s possible that there’s also a bit of unresolved tension over Sherlock lying to me about his death and disappearance for two years.” John pauses. “And the fact that I punched him a few times after he showed up out of his figurative grave. Which he did in the middle of the romantic dinner that I had planned in order to propose to Mary.” John adds this last in the hopes that his very tall, former MI6, former lover of his former best friend flatmate will refrain from tying him into a complicated knot.

“We’re all a little mad here,” is Victor’s only response, and John feels irrationally grateful that his very tall, former MI6, former lover of his former best friend flatmate is a bit of a nerd.

**

Mary is avoiding his calls. John cannot decipher what this means. He has guesses, but they are all maddening, so finally decides to take the Tube and make his way to Mary’s flat. He still has his key, but as he is not deliberately obtuse, only un-deliberately, he chooses to perch himself on the front steps to wait for her return.

Fortunately, before he is able to execute this plan, Mary does call him and asks him to meet her at her flat. “Just let yourself in, if you would” she requests, and John is too nervous to think about what any of it means, even though he has nothing else to do on a long Tube ride.

It becomes clear why she requested that he let himself in once he enters the flat, and John finds himself frozen in place. He knows that if he calculates more carefully, he’ll likely come up with a different percentage than 50, but it’s too much at the moment, as he doesn’t know whether he should give into feelings of despair, tentative joy, crippling guilt, or abject terror. He decides instead to go into a bit of soldier mode: address the crisis after taking stock of the situation. He crosses the distance, forcing himself to put on civilian mannerisms and sits beside Mary on the couch. It’s clear that she’s been crying, and he’s trying to think of something comforting or at least neutral to say, but she begins instead.

“Sherlock and I aren’t together. But he has been going to my appointments with me.”

Crippling guilt begins to win.

“You look good,” she says, taking John aback a bit.

“So do you,” he replies, following the neutral path. “You have that glow, you know, that people are always talking about.”

Mary’s suddenly crying again, and John is reminded of why his “Three Continents” nickname was ironic.

“For the record, Mary, I came here with the intention of telling you that I’d like to remain married, if you you’d like to give it another shot. This doesn’t-won’t change anything, regardless of whether I’d be his or her biological father or not.” John is aware that he sounds as if he’s delivering instructions at the clinic, but he feels helpless and mildly panicked.

Mary composes herself, and John has the presence of mind to offer her a tissue.

“I’ve made a right cock-up of things,” she says through her tear-filled voice.

“I’ve got to take some of the credit for that,” he replies, and when she manages a small laugh, he figures there’s a chance.

**

At first it seems ridiculously unfair that Sherlock isn’t in some sort of harried or disheveled state. He still has the hair and the coat and the chiseled…everything. But John is quickly able to remember that Sherlock Holmes is talented at facades. John is mostly focused on his relief that Sherlock has agreed to meet him here, at the Chinese restaurant where they shared their first post-case meal, at the same ridiculous hour as those few years ago. John is nursing tea and water when Sherlock sits across from him, and the silence is awkward. John doesn’t even have any words planned, the last few days having been so emotionally exhausting that he hasn’t even tried. Now he wishes he had.

It may be a spectacularly bad idea to begin the conversation about Sherlock’s ex, but John is desperate.

“It might interest you to know that I’ve been flat-sharing, well, flat-sharing and working with, Victor Trevor.”

Sherlock’s expression indicates that he is not aware, and John is struck with the sense that he is rather sick of shocked expressions on people’s faces.

Sherlock seems to regain a sense of composure. “How…how is he?”

“Well, he’s alright. He worries about you. Honestly I don’t think he’s over you at all.” John is aware of the insanity of revealing these things to Sherlock, but has decided that trying to hide things from Sherlock is futile at best.

“What…what is he doing with himself? When you say that the two of you have been working together…”

John ignores the revelation that he has botched the one moment that he could have hidden something from Sherlock Holmes. “He’s a private investigator, when he’s not restoring rare books. He owns a used book shop. I’ve been working with him on some of his cases.”

Sherlock’s expression gives little away, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “That…is exactly the Victor I knew in university.”

“He’s a good man, Victor. Well, from where I’m sitting, anyway.”

“He is. Too good for a junkie.” Sherlock’s smile becomes bitter. “I’m very good at hurting people. As you well know.”

“Sherlock, you’ve just described the vast majority of the human race.”

“John, why are you trying so hard to fix things?”

John doesn’t even realize how hard he’s clenching his napkin until it’s sticking to his hand with sweat. He slowly releases it. “You already have an answer, Sherlock. I’m sure you’re also disinclined to believe that I’m far more interested in salvaging our friendship than I am in working cases, my inclination to run after danger and violence notwithstanding.”

Sherlock is giving him the look that John has seen dozens of times aimed at potential clients in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. “I wasn’t lying when I said those things at your wedding, John. I suppose that I’m simply failing to decipher why you’re interested in salvaging our friendship, considering…past events.”

John captures Sherlock’s eyes, holds his gaze, neither of them flinching away. “I wanted you to not be dead. Wedon’t get to be picky about miracles, however messy they may be.”

**

Lydia Renee Watson is born on a Wednesday afternoon, red-faced, squalling and without any features that would readily indicate her paternity, not that facial structure and hair are definitive. John is present for all twelve hours of labour, while Sherlock is tied up with a case in Belfast. John decides that he doesn’t have the energy to feel guilty that he’s happy that Sherlock isn’t there. He pushes his own feelings away and focuses on Mary being comfortable, and on the fact that he’s already irrevocably falling in love with Lydia as he cradles her carefully in his arms.

“I want you to be the father. Does that help?”

“Yes, if I’m being perfectly honest. But I’m also being perfectly honest when I say that I think you should focus on getting your rest.”

“I think you’re forgetting that I used to be a spy and a contract killer. But I do appreciate the kid gloves, a little.”

**

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.” Sherlock is posed in, wha,t for him, is a relatively rare position: tense, sitting stiffly on the edge of a chair.

“I don’t think there’s a right or wrong way to feel here.”

“You must feel elated, vindicated.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved, happy even, but I’m not so self-absorbed and obtuse that I want to ignore your feelings on the matter.”

It takes less time than John would suspect for Sherlock to pick up the reference, and his posture actually relaxes, albeit in a slumped, dejected manner. It takes exactly four seconds longer than John would have expected for Sherlock to have the helpful epiphany.

“Are you really telling me that you’re more upset about that than about Mary and I having an affair?”

“Let’s just say that one is easier to forgive, and it’s not the one that most people would suspect. Honestly I’m as surprised as you are.”

**

“John Watson, I am surprised to hear from you. I’m assuming that you are either calling to share some brilliant news with me, or this is you informing me that you have less than brilliant news and you’re soon to come crawling back to my Spartan but charming and quaint flat.”

“Well, I can begin with the brilliant news. I’m a father.”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line, and when Victor finally speaks again his voice sounds strained. “I’m assuming that you were aware of Mary’ pregnancy prior to her giving birth, which means one of two things: you forgot to share this brilliant news with me earlier, or there was a question of paternity at issue.”

“Yes, which leads me to my next reason for calling. Sherlock and I are on speaking terms, and I know how he feels about you…”

“Sherlock is sharing this information with you then?”

“Well, no, but as taciturn as Sherlock is, he’s been less able to construct his usual façade lately, and I know him well enough to know, well, what he’s feeling.”

The silence on the other end of the phone is painfully long. “Don’t be a coward, Victor.”

“Fuck you, Watson.” But John can tell that Victor is intrigued.

**

Lydia is six years old by the time Sherlock and Victor finally get around to marrying. John and Mary watch as she dances with her Uncle Sherlock and her Uncle Victor. 

“One of these days, she’s going to want to know how her parents got together. And she’s probably going to want to know how her uncles got together.” Mary is leaning into him, comfortably. John slings one arm around her shoulders. “I think we ought to tell her everything. Not all at once, mind you, but in pieces.”

“And just how old should she be when we start unveiling these pieces?”

“Hmm…whatever age it is that most of us start to develop a bit of neuroses about not being normal.”

“So she’ll receive confirmation that it’s her parents’ fault then? That ought to save us some money on therapy.”

“Quite.” John watches as his daughter’s golden hair catches the light of the setting sun.

FIN.


End file.
